


Impulse

by dreamsofdramione



Series: Fairest of the Rare's LoveFest 2020 [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, I'm a little sorry, PWP, Poetic Porn, Smut, seriously no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofdramione/pseuds/dreamsofdramione
Summary: Firewhisky and Sirius Black mix a little too well.#TeamAphrodite #LF2020
Relationships: Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Series: Fairest of the Rare's LoveFest 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642516
Comments: 17
Kudos: 151
Collections: Love Fest 2020





	Impulse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frumpologist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/gifts).



> Written for the Fariest of the Rare's LoveFest 2020  
> #TeamAphrodite #LF2020
> 
> Prompt: Hermione x Sirius + Drinking

  


**_Im·pulse - /ˈimˌpəls/_ **

_(noun) a sudden strong and unreflective urge or desire to act._

* * *

Maintaining a sense of controlled composure had never been hard for Hermione. Reigning in retorts and considering a situation prior to making a rash decision was nearly second nature. She bit her tongue, and watched her words, and only toed the line of acceptability on occasions when it was strictly necessary for a sense of the great good. 

But tonight, in a moment of weakness, her will simply wasn’t strong enough to hold back the urge to act or speak or think out of turn, and she finally, blessedly, let herself go.

She let his breath puff against her lips.

She let her cup fall to the ground, shattering and soaking the rug with liquor.

She let her tongue tangle around his with expert ease.

She let her palms slide over planes of muscle, skirting each dip and turn she’d memorised by sight when she couldn’t help but watch him do nothing more than simply move.

For once, just this once, she told herself, she let herself feel what it was like to be surrounded by his embrace, drenched in his essence, and at the mercy of his wicked whims.

Delicate fingers carded through dark, tousled locks she’d been dreaming about for far longer than she’d ever admit. And it was soft, so soft. Velvety to the touch but firm within her fingers, she tugged just so and felt his chest rumble with a groan that shattered any semblance of her own self-control. 

Firewhisky tasted almost sweet mingled and mixed with the flavour of his lips. The bitter edge seemed softer but it burned all the same. 

For all the times his eyes would bore into hers behind closed lids, she’d never once envisioned them quite so black. Deep and dark, they held her gaze as deft fingers danced down the ladder of her ribs. Breathing in half spurts of sucked in air, lacking even the consciousness of the reflexive rhythm, she watched his lips curl when his palm cupped her bum. With her knees bracketing his hips, and her elbows digging into the firm stretch of his shoulders, Hermione did something she’d never dared to dream she could possibly do. 

“Sirius.” His name was a wisp of a word, a remnant of its weight as it slipped from her lips, curled around the ends with a hiss. 

Purely on instinct, thrumming with her own need, she rocked against his hand, urging him forward. The pressure of his palm was maddening, ever so subtle and not quite enough. 

If she’d had a few less glasses of the fiery drink, she might have had the nerve to blush when she whimpered. But she’d had her fair share and then some, feeling that curtain of control dip and slip as she drank down each portion. 

Practically sucking his signature into the thin skin of her neck, he sent her already frayed nerves into a frenzy. It was too much, yet not enough, and every time his breath would puff over the sensitive spot on her neck, or his fingers would venture just a little bit farther, Hermione wanted to rip his hair out and steal the breath from his lungs. She wanted to mark him up, with her nails and lips and teeth, leaving the evidence of their impulses on his body long after the whisky wore off. 

In a mess of tangled limbs, and with far more grace than she could ever hope to have, Sirius lifted her off of the sofa. Hermione’s legs wound around his hips and her lips landed against his collarbone before he climbed the stairs in a rush. Stopping here and there, as though every minuscule second would be wasted otherwise, he’d press against some surface—the stair rail, the hall, then finally the door—and his lips would find hers. Like a man lost in the desert, deprived of all but his own breath, he’d drink the essence of her kiss straight from her lips.

She’d never quite known a heat like this, an all-consuming, mind-numbing need that flared to life in her veins and steadily licked along her ribs with each pump of her pulse. Even if she’d been able to grasp some sliver of sanity, she’d push it away in favour of submitting to her own salacious desires. 

It was no secret that the tension between them was reaching a fevered pitch. Even Harry had jokingly mentioned, a time or two, that their bickering was damn near foreplay, but she didn’t think her friend understood the truth in his words. 

Wanting and needing and thinking about him had been her vice for more than just the last few months, but she’d never once thought it could possibly come to be. The way his hands gripped the swell of her hips as he backed her against the bed until her knees knocked the edge ripped at her sense of reason. 

“Kitten,” he purred, coaxing a groan up her throat as his lips skirted her ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve—”

Hermione kissed him then, hard and fast, crushing her lips to his because she didn’t need to know. 

She didn’t _want_ to know. 

Not yet. 

Surely her affections outlived his. For social acceptability and the morality she knew him to have, they couldn’t have even been very old. She was barely out of her teens and he was her senior by more than a few years. She had no desire to learn the exact moment she’d transitioned in his eyes to someone he could possibly want, though the thought still felt foreign, even as his teeth sank into her lips and hips rocked against her own. 

At some point in time, hours down the road, she’d replay all of this in her own mind and pick apart every detail to deduce his truest desires. But for now, with the curves of his chest pressed against her breasts and the smooth timbre of his voice washing over her, she didn’t want to think. 

She only needed to feel.

She let herself fall into a spiral of bliss, her back padded by the mattress, pinned beneath the weight of his form. 

She let her heart jump and thump against her ribs as he peeled each layer of fabric from her body with a meticulous precision that made her head spin. 

She let his hands and mouth, teeth and tongue, explore parts of her few others had ever even seen.

She let him guide her through the moment with firm yet gentle hands sliding over every inch of her bare body, tracing the lean lines of her form with care.

Even as she crested, with his length nestled in her soaked warmth, Hermione let herself be controlled, consumed, by her impulses to see this through. She knew the early morning rays would cut harsh lines across the wreckage of the room, sheets bunched and stained and clothes strewn in every direction, but she couldn’t bring herself to care much when he said her name like a benediction. If he was the priest of her pleasure, his text was nothing more than her name, his sermon was a mix of sounds, and she’d willingly worship at his altar. 

But sorting out anything beyond her own sweat-soaked chest, heaving with each laboured breath, and the delicious burn in her throat from the whisky or her own screams—she wasn’t sure which—was a feat for another day. 

A day when the weight of his spent form didn’t warm her down to the very marrow of her bones. 

A day when she’d have the decency to blush over what they’d just done.

A day she honestly hoped might never come.

If this was what she got for living a life full of nights, shrouded in shadows, she may never wake before evening again.

**Author's Note:**

> All of my love to my alpha [@msmerlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/pseuds/msmerlin) for taking the time to look over this little drabble. Extra thanks to [@mrsren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsren/pseuds/mrsren) for prereading! 
> 
> Unbetad so all errors are my own!
> 
> Come find me on tumblr [@dreamsofdramione](https://dreamsofdramione.tumblr.com)!
> 
> THANK YOU ALL for reading! Comments & kudos **always appreciated!**


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